i’m blogging this

R: So is BART on strike today?

J: Don’t know.

R: Doesn’t seem to be any havoc.

J (squinting skywards): No burning treehouses.

R: …burning treehouses?

J: You know. Burning things, falling from the sky.

R: …treehouses?

J: I don’t know. I was looking up, and got distracted by the blueness of the sky, so I just threw in a random word.

I’m wearing my “I’m blogging this” t-shirt today, so I’d better get to it, and not make a liar of my handsome milk-distended rack. I wanted to note how funny it was that when Morrisa came over on Friday to wander around Bernal, I bumped into both Cate Reigner AND Marina Berlin, which never happens, even though they both live only a few blocks away. It was one of those ineffable Bernal days, with the sun and the flowers and the ridiculous neighborhoodiness of it all. Claire and Miranda played adorably in the playground, Salome got her legs waxed and we all blew dozens of dollars on ubercute baby clothes in Chloe’s Closet.

Then on Saturday Morrisa came to the SF Mime Troupe performance and we bumped into Aaron and Bronwyn Ximm. That’s pretty much everyone I know in San Francisco, so there’s no chance I can maintain the charade of being a popular and connected gal. The Ximms lost the lease on 964 Natoma, which sucks, but they’re moving into a place on Bernal! Two blocks away! With a hot tub! Which rules. I went barefoot in the park but failed to put enough sunscreen on my blinding white lower extremities, so I got sunburnt, and now it looks like I am wearing pink gumboots. Odd.

I forgot to mention that on Friday night Jeremy and I dumped Claire on poor Salome and zoomed off to see Spencer’s Someday, Love, a musical based on his Crimson Club cabaret numbers, at the New Conservatory Theater. Listening to Spencer sing makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, because he is the Real Thing. His songs are getting better than ever, all Gershwin and Kurt Weill and Cole Porter-influenced, and he had two singers whose voices blended brilliantly with his, and he took his shirt off! Ian was amazed. “He’s so classically handsome and well-formed!” “Ian,” we kept reminding him, “you are NOT GAY. Remember?” But Spencer is so beautiful that even straight men are impressed. Someday, Love has finished its run, but Spencer and the band are playing Cafe du Nord on July 21. Book tickets now RUN DON’T WALK.

Um, so. Sunday we went to Leonard and Sumana’s party, which was great fun, and then had dinner at Bursa Kebab, where the gorgeous hostess who fell in love with Claire turned out to be a Jordanian writer who invited me to stay at her parent’s place in Amman next time I am, you know, over that way. Monday I spent the morning eating too many Krispy Kreme donuts with Shannon while Bryan and Jeremy and the kids got sunburned in the park. In the afternoon we went to a block party with Jonathan and Re in their outrageously lovely Berkeley neighborhood, all leafy trees and Craftsman mansions and home-made peach pie and berry cobbler, mmm. You need a thick skin to hang out with those guys though; Re approved of the name Zoe but when we told Jonathan, he said “Really? HOW ORIGINAL.” And it is the case that we have met at least twenty thousand little girls called Zoe, so it’s back to the drawing board for us.

Just another splendid, funny, sweet holiday in San Francisco, made even bittersweeter by loss and fear of loss. Driving into the Farmer’s Market on Saturday morning I cried and cried, because in my life I have known three truly excellent animals, Alfie and Sade and Belinda, and now they are all gone. Shannon’s lovely silver tom Charlie was killed by a car, and she herself is on bedrest until Ruari can be safely born.

Claire: Mummy sad?

R: Yes. I’m sad because Belinda had to go away.

C: Mummy sad. Bye-bye Belinda.

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